


The Beast of Autevielle-Saint-Martin-Bideren

by Ekatarinabeisel76



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Disney, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekatarinabeisel76/pseuds/Ekatarinabeisel76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his friend Constance is taken, presumably by the infamous Beast of Auteville-Saint-Martin-Bideren, D’Artagnan immediately rides to the castle of Comte de la Fere. He makes a deal with the crotchety and reclusive comte – he will stay in Constance’s place. As he stays with the Comte and his friends, he begins to unravel the secrets of the mythical Beast, and discovers that not all is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast of Autevielle-Saint-Martin-Bideren

Constance Bonacieux sat on the edge of the fountain decorating the square of the modest border town of Petit D’Orolon, with a worn leather-bound volume in her hands and a small, secretive smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It was her favorite book, and her favorite kind of day – with the sun shining bright and a cool breeze blissfully sweeping along the cobblestones of the main street. It must have been the fifth time in a month that she had started the book, which was a tale of a noble, dashing prince racing to the aid of his imprisoned dame. She took a moment to adjust her long blonde hair, which spilled haphazardly over her shoulder to mingle with the yellow-died linen of her dress.

            Behind her, a boy with sleek black hair and blue eyes that glittered like the water rippling in the pool at the base of the fountain, crept closer. If his steps made any noise, Constance failed to hear it. When he was within mere inches of her, he leaned forward, grasped one winding lock of her flaxen hair, and tugged.

            Startled, she leapt from her perch on the wall of the well and whirled around. Her favorite book tumbled to the cobblestones bellow their feet, taking with it the enchanting tale of the fair prince and his infant quest.

“Charles De Batz!” Constance shrieked. Several people in the square turned to see what the commotion was, but upon noting who exactly was involved, returned to their business. Constance Bonacieux, the daughter of a crackpot inventor, and Charles De Batz, son of a prosperous if uneducated farmer, were known for their antics. Or rather, Charles was known for his antics and Constance was known for enduring them with dutiful ire.

            She stooped to retrieve her book, but was beaten to it by Charles, who was nothing if not quick. He proffered the volume, and she promptly relieved him of it.

            “Don’t you have turnips to sell or something?” she demanded, but the fact that she and D’Artagnan were walking side by side down the main street together was proof enough that she had forgiven him.

            “This is something.” He responded gamely.

            “Who on earth gave you the right to be so cheerful?” She asked him, positively annoyed by his transfixed smile and twinkling eyes.

            “Father says we might finally have made enough money to buy another horse and replace the plow.”

            While they were not the worst-off family in the village and its environs, the De Batzs were certainly among its poorest, despite the fact that Francoise D’Artagnan, Charles’ mother, had been born into a moderately wealthy land-owning family (whose surname was the name that Charles most often answered to, as his mother was fond of remarking that he had the spirit of a true D’Artagnan). They were in good company at least, as Constance and her father were, as far as finances were concerned, their longstanding neighbors. Their home and the little workshop attached to it was in better condition than the farm, albeit by the breadth of a hair.

            “Well that is good news.” Constance answered cheerfully, “How long until you have enough money to purchase some maturity reflective of your age?”

            A belt of laughter rose from behind the boy’s lips, and Constance herself gave in to the twitch at the corner of lips and revealed her own luminous smile.

            “I’ll have to ask, but I’m pretty sure that it’s somewhere below fixing the roof, rebuilding the barn, replacing the locks, and getting wood for next winter. Oh, and let’s not forget taxes.”

            Constance groaned. Their modest village, which abutted Autevielle Forrest, was built on land now owned by Cardinal Richelieu, who relied on the recently ennobled Comte De Rochefort to collect exacting and preposterously large sums of tax money for his income. The season for the collection of taxes was nearly upon them. Before summer’s end the parsonage would be full of grain, cotton, wool, and many weighty bags of francs, and the villad’Orolon would be left to scrounge for whatever resources were left.

            “What will your father pay with this year?” Charles asked quietly, suddenly much more serious.

            “I have no idea.” Constance heaven a deep, weary sigh as her face darkened. “He was short last year, and had to take a loan from a banker in Agen for 20 francs. We’ve made even less money this year, and we’ve had to sell all of our livestock just to pay back the loan.”

            “Do you think he’ll take tax in books?” she asked after a moment of pregnant silence.

            They both tried to laugh. The closest either of them came was a half-smile that barely reached Charles’ eyes. The sun still shined. Villagers still purchased their weekly needs and argued with shopkeepers over exorbitant prices. Yet the day was still drearier for the very thought of the coming of Richelieu’s man Rochefort.

            “When are you and your father leaving for home?” Constance asked, eager to change the subject.

            “As soon as he’s finished reloading the cart.” He left the, ‘so as to be home before the Beast comes out for the full moon” remain unspoken.

            “Soon then.” Constance stated with an appreciable level of resignation.

            “Yes, but not before I see the prettiest girl in all of Petit D’Orolon to her door.” D’Artagnan announced cheerily.

            Constance smiled, and looped her arm in his. As they walked the narrow, crooked streets, the sun began to fall and the periwinkle blue of twilight began to tinge the sky. And just like everyone else in the village, they tried not to think about the impending taxes, or even worse, the coming attack of the Beast. Though in the secret, quiet places of their minds everyone wondered whose livestock would be found rent and void of blood the next morning.

            When they reached the modest, low-ceilinged home of the Bonacieuxs, D’Artagnan remained on the bottom step, and kept a hold of Constance’s hand as she climbed the three narrow steps to the front door. Once she was safely inside the threshold, she turned to her friend – who was once again the cheerful boy with hair black as a raven’s feathers and eyes like the far off sea that Constance sometimes dreamed of, instead of the doomed to poverty and hardworking son of an equally hardworking and poverty-doomed farmer.

            “Good night Charles D’Artagnan De Batz.”

            “Good night m’lady, Constance Bonacieux, Grand Dame of Petit D’Orolon.”

            It was their little joke, their dream, their fantasy; he was a dashing swordsman and she was a pure lady. They lived in nice homes and rode horses and drank with friends for fun. But above all else – the twin cornerstones of their game as it were – was that they always had each other, and they never had to worry about things like money, or taxes, and especially not the icy cold rain trickling in through holes in the roof.

            Or, as was D’Artagnan’s current plight, making it back home before the Beast came down from his castle on the other side of Autevielle Forrest to hunt whatever living, bleeding thing he could find, by a small cart drawn by one poor old horse named Buttercup.

‘-‘-‘-‘-‘-‘-‘-‘-‘-‘-‘

            D’Artagnan awoke to the dull light of early morning filtering in through the holes in the roof above his bed, and to his father frantically shaking him. He could see his mother standing in the doorway, leaning on the wall as if it was the only thing keeping her standing, and with her rosary clasped so hard in her hands that her knuckles were as white as brand new cotton.

            “What is it?” he asked. His voice was still groggy with sleep still yearned for, and his eyes itched to close again even as he cleared the sleep from them.

            “The Beast came again last night.” His father said gravely.

            “Whose goat did it killed this time?” D’Artagnan asked, still too tired and not yet awake enough to fully comprehend the mollified terror of his parent’s extreme and newfound pallor, or the severity of their urgency. His mother took several small steps forward until she could reach out and touch her hand to her son’s cheek.

            “I am so sorry Charles.” She said.

            D’Artagnan was suddenly struck by the oddness of the situation. His mother never called him Charles except for when he was in trouble, and the time when his grandmother had died five winters ago. Why the sudden severity? Why the rosary? Why the soft caress and hushed whisper?

            “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice trembling with apprehension.

            In a voice as soft as the pillow which he would have but seconds ago given anything to return to, she answered, “It took Constance.”


End file.
